A man with the right scruffed-up beard and breadth of chest swaggered into the S and M dungeon that was my place of business, and twenty minutes and one grand later had my chin — still soft with the downy fluff of teen-girl skin — held steady in one paw while the other one flew at my face so hard and fast that I ceased to exist as the same collection of matter I had been the previous instant.
When Sarah’s mother, Penny, got sick four years into our marriage, we decided to move back to Mississippi, considering it penance for the sins of our youth. We signed a lease on a house, a white one-story on the historical register with a wraparound porch and angels, stars, and the moon painted on the transom above the front door.
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Writing from The Sun has won the Pushcart Prize and been selected for the Best American Essays and Best American Short Stories anthologies.
We publish personal essays, fiction, and poetry. Personal stories that touch on political and cultural issues are welcome.
We encourage submissions from writers of color.
Surprise us; we often don’t know what we’ll like until we read it.
We rarely run anything longer than seven thousand words; there’s no minimum length.
We discourage simultaneous submissions.
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